A Cage Without a Key
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: It isn't a fit night out for man or vampire. Spike (BtVS) walks into a bar and meet Mr. Waverly (MFU). Sometimes it takes the soul of a poet to really see things. Written for the Into the bar challenge.


_Bloody cold night!_ When it got like this in New York, Spike found himself missing London. Of course, technically speaking, as a vampire he didn't really feel hot or cold, but it was the principle of the thing. He had money after a night of… mischief. Since Dru was off spinning her wheels with Angelus and Darla, it was just Spike, Spike, and Spike. At times like this, he knew right where to head for company.

The bar's neon signs flashed gaudy against the night, artificial and cold. That suited Spike just right. _Just like me._ When he got like this, he yearned for the stink of humanity.

He found himself a chair where he had an eagle eye view of the patrons. He'd just fed, so he wasn't hungry, but he was wildly thirsty_. Another oxymoron_ he thought, lifting a hand to the waitress, a grey worn out-looking woman. _How someone who lives on a liquid diet could get thirsty is, well, weird._

A few murmured words were exchanged and the woman left, her shoulders slumped. Spike studied his hands. He once had the hands of a gentleman, soft and well-manicured, his future secured by his mother's position.

_Least until I turned her._ He cut off the thought as a tall glass of a pale yellow frothy mess was set down in front of him. He sighed heavily and sipped.

"And it's cold to boot," he muttered. "Bloody Americans."

"They never have quite got it right, have they?" The man at the next table glanced over at him. He was old, grey eyes crowned with massively wild eyebrows. For a moment, he reminded Spike of his grandfather, but Grandpop was cold and buried for decades now. The accent told Spike that man was manor born and he was well dressed. In fact, he looked as out of place as Spike felt.

"Naw, they try, but nothing can beat a proper ale served in a proper pub." Spike let his own accent soften a bit. "These American bars… they pale in comparison. "You visiting the states?"

The man looked up from patting his pockets. He pulled out a pipe and then started another search. "Alas, no, I have lived here, but it shall never be home. Not really."

"Home is where your soul is." Spike took a long pull on the beer and swallowed. It quenched his thirst, but not his longing. "Night like tonight, a man should be in the bosom of his family, not cavorted with this crowd."

"We are apparently just two of many." The man offered a hand. "Alexander Waverly."

"William, but my friends call me Spike." Spike shook the man's hand carefully, mindful of arthritic joints.

"Like Milligan? My word, you are like ice." Alexander covered Spike's hand with his other, chaffing it, and then he smiled. "I have just the thing. " He dropped Spike's hand and reached into his jacket. "Would you like my gloves? They are fur lined."

"Thank you, but, no. It's just poor circulation." Spike was taken aback by the man's generosity. He decided he'd give this one a pass. Besides a man this old, he deserved to live out his days. Spike preferred them young and prone to screaming. "So, Alexander, what brings you to a godforsaken place like this on a night like this?"

For a long moment, Alexander puffed on the pipe he'd lit and Spike was wondering if the old man had heard him. Spike tried to ignore the stink of the man's tobacco. It reminded him of his grandmother's chamber pot

"An unfortunate business. Two young men… their blood is on my hands."

Spike's eyes darted to the gnarled fingers before realizing the man spoke metaphorically. Of course. If there's been actual blood, he would have smelled it. "You killed them?"

"I might just as well have pulled the trigger. I sent them into a bad situation. I should have realized it from the start, but I was arrogant and thought I knew better – the curse of old age. They tried to tell me, but I wouldn't listen and now two of my best are gone."

"You in some sort of law enforcement?" Spike was wary, although he knew the man posed him no threat.

"After a fashion."

"They are soldiers, then, and the truth is that when you are at war, soldiers die. It isn't pretty; it often isn't fair, but it's the way." Spike paused and regarded his beer. "Their mortal light snuffed out carrying forward the best of intentions, a sorry shield against hatred and violence."

"You speak like a poet."

"I was, once upon a time, a long time ago."

"And now?"

"I'm just tired, mate." He raised his glass to Alexander and drained it. He gestured to the waitress and nodded to Alexander and then himself. "You see enough of life and it all sort of bleeds together."

"At your age? You are far too young to be so jaded."

Spike worked to suppress his grin. "I'm older than I look." The drinks arrived and they drank. They spoke of life and of death and the pointlessness of both. Spike talked about school and Alexander reminisced about growing up in the English countryside.

"Will you stay for another round?" Waverly's voice was growing even more gravelly and Spike abruptly realized the passage of time. Dawn was coming. He could smell it.

"No, my missus will be missing me." _I hope,_ he added, mentally. "Just remember the pain you feel is what makes you a good leader. It shouldn't be easy to kill." _But it was and is._

"Thank you, William. I will remember all that we have spoken of tonight. Good evening." The man, however, made no effort to move and Spike considered asking the bartender to call him a cab. Instead, he tossed down several bills as he passed the bar.

"Whatever he wants or needs, it's on me." As Spike started through the door, two men appeared. He could smell the same brand of tobacco that Alexander smoked permeating their suits. His nose wrinkled. "If you're looking to Alexander Waverly, he's over there." Spike laughed at their surprised expressions as he pointed over to their table. "Go easy on him. He's had a bad night."

"Thank you," the shorter one, a tasty looking blond, if you were into the type, said. Spike could smell his blood, sharp and adrenaline laced, and saw the hint of a bandage peeking out. The other man was equally bruised and scraped.

"Sir, are you all right?" The taller, a brunet, went straight to the old man. "We came straight from the airport-"

"Mr. Solo! Mr. Kuryakin! But they told me…" Waverly looked as if he was seeing ghosts. Spike smiled. It only made sense. After all, he'd spent the night with a vampire.


End file.
